I never know as much as I think I do

It's always easy to look in from the outside and figure I've got it all figured out.

My person, actions, thoughts, being, career, and life are perfect, without question, or reproach-- so the thinking goes. Since that's all tidy, I may as well start looking around at others and explain in a veiled way how they should make themselves more like me-- faultless and all...

Yet, Ibis, the truth is so far from that.

You wouldn't know I have barely slept in three weeks. The worst part of it is I don't know why. It's certainly not for lack of being tired. It's not for a lack of opportunity. I'm so tired during the day now, I sometimes lay down on the floor beneath my desk-- still I don't sleep. "What is wrong with me?" I cry out internally-- suddenly intensely aware that my attainment of perfection was, at least, incomplete.

Before three weeks ago, I somehow forgot about the one thing I fear most-- sleep deprivation.

For at least three years sleep was a privilege not regularly afforded. For the past two years though, sleep has been a regular option for me, but now I cannot seem to make it work. All of this truthfully must just be the surface of what is a deeper pool of imperfection. C'est La Vie.